


Breathe

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Death Doesn't Count Here, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Eventual Fluff, Fix-It, Heaven, It's The Finale But BETTER, M/M, Major Character Death TECHNICALLY But... It's Supernatural, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27989043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: “Jack?” he says tentatively. “Jack, I dunno if you’re listening, buddy, but… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for… all of it. Being a fuckin’ hardass. Treating you like you weren’t part of the family. You were always part of the family. You hearin’ this?”There’s no real answer, but Dean didn’t really expect one. He takes a slug of whiskey, wipes his mouth, takes another, and for a second he thinks it’s the alcohol, giving him that funny warm feeling.“Hi, Jack,” he manages. “I’d pour one out for you, but… seems like a fuckin’ waste, if you’re… I dunno. In everything, or whatever.”This is a happy sort of warmth; it lingers.“My dad would say I’m being selfish, right now. Feelin’ sorry for myself. Looking back. Wasting my time wishing things could be different. But…”Dean looks up at the stars again. They go blurry.“I just — fuck. Fuck it. I don’t know what to say.”He sits down on the ground, head in his hands, and takes a moment to be selfish.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 165





	Breathe

Dean wants to scream, _wait._

_Wait, Cas._

_Just a minute._

_I need a minute to breathe, Cas._

_I need more time. Please._

It’s all too much, too much to process, too much to feel, and then the Empty is sending tendrils of black oozing nothingness up Cas’s face, smothering him, taking him away, and… 

There isn’t any more time. He’s gone. 

Dean is out of time, and he can’t _breathe_ , let alone speak, and Cas is gone before Dean can say, _I love you too._

—

Of course Dean loved him, but… 

_Family_ , they’d always said. It never occurred to Dean that it could’ve been… _that_. That it could’ve been _more_. Something new. 

Whenever he starts thinking about it, trying to examine his feelings a little closer, he feels like he’s _drowning_. The loss is so _big_ , right now. There’s no room for anything else, and it’s terrifying, how easily it could pull Dean under. 

Dean tells himself there will be time. After they get Chuck, after they end this thing… yeah. He’ll have time. He’ll figure it out. 

Later. When it doesn’t hurt so much. 

— 

Dean’s not really sure what to do with his free will, now he has it. He doesn’t feel any different. He thought it’d feel _different_ somehow. 

He’s _tired_. He’s not a goddamn hero any more; there’s no all-powerful asshole putting cosmic Tiger Balm on his sore muscles for the sake of the fucking narrative. He _aches_ , now, and some mornings he wakes up feeling like he’s been holding the actual weight of the world on his shoulders. 

All that loss is a heavy thing to carry around. He’s getting too old to play Atlas. 

It gets easier, but not by much. There are still things that Dean can’t say out loud. He hasn’t even said the name. 

His dad always said it was selfish to waste time on shit like that. Can’t be sittin’ around feeling sorry for yourself when there are people to save, things to hunt… 

Plenty of things to hunt, that’s for damn sure. It feels mundane after what they’ve been up against, but there are plenty of monsters; they keep Dean busy enough that he doesn’t have time to dwell. 

No apocalypses. No gods, no angels. Just Sam and Dean and their dog, and one hunt after another. 

—

“I know you’re not telling me everything,” Sam says quietly, over breakfast one morning. “You gotta talk about Cas at some point, Dean.” 

“Soon.” He clears his throat. “Soon. I need some time before I can talk about… him.” 

“Dean.” 

“Cas. Before I can talk about losing _Cas_. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

It’s quiet for a few minutes as they eat their eggs. 

“How’s Eileen?” Dean asks quietly. 

Sam sighs. “We’re taking it slow. Maybe it’s stupid. I _know_ she’s alive, but…” 

“You lost her.” 

“I lost her. And that’s all mixed up with… with how much I love her. I don’t know how to feel one without the other right now.” 

Dean almost laughs at that. Trust Sam to find exactly the right words for what Dean hasn’t been able to admit to himself. 

Love isn’t _just_ love, it’s _loss_ , and the fear of loss, and the knowledge that most people _leave_. They leave, and it hurts like hell. Dean doesn’t even remember what it’s like to love someone without expecting to lose them. Loss goes hand in hand with love, especially if you’re a fucking Winchester. 

“Like I said,” Dean tells him. “You need time. We both do.” 

Something shifts in Sam’s expression, like he understands, and Dean looks away. 

—

Dad always insisted that Dean make his bed in the morning. It had to be neat, everything tucked in tight… his dad learned it in the military. He taught Dean in turn, beat it into him until the lesson stuck, and Dean’s never been able to shake the habit. 

Until now. 

His dog is ready to go out and chase a frigging frisbee for a while. Dean doesn’t _want_ to spend another five minutes making sure his bed is up to goddamn military standards. He _wants_ to throw a frisbee and drink some coffee and hit the frigging road. 

So that’s what he’s going to do. 

It’s scary, but in a good way, like the last moment when a rollercoaster pauses before it drops. 

What’s the use of free will if he’s still following orders from a memory? 

—

That night, when he comes in and sees his rumpled sheets, Dean can’t breathe. He grabs the bottle of whiskey from the nightstand and heads right back out again. 

He knows Jack talked about being everywhere, but it feels better in the open air. Easier, somehow. The knot in Dean’s chest loosens slightly when he turns his face up to the moon. 

“Jack?” he says tentatively. “Jack, I dunno if you’re listening, buddy, but… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for… all of it. Being a fuckin’ hardass. Treating you like you weren’t part of the family. You were always part of the family. You hearin’ this?” 

There’s no real answer, but Dean didn’t really expect one. He takes a slug of whiskey, wipes his mouth, takes another, and for a second he thinks it’s the alcohol, giving him that funny warm feeling. 

“Hi, Jack,” he manages. “I’d pour one out for you, but… seems like a fuckin’ waste, if you’re… I dunno. In everything, or whatever.”

This is a happy sort of warmth; it lingers. 

“My dad would say I’m being selfish, right now. Feelin’ sorry for myself. Looking back. Wasting my time wishing things could be different. But…” 

Dean looks up at the stars again. They go blurry. 

“I just — _fuck_. Fuck it. I don’t know what to say.” 

He sits down on the ground, head in his hands, and takes a moment to be selfish. 

—

Dean feels a little thrill the first few times he leaves his bed unmade. After about a week, it starts to feel like a new habit. 

In the morning, he ignores his dad’s voice in his head. At night, he takes his fifth of Jameson outside and sits under the stars. 

It’s quiet, nothing but crickets and wind to keep him company, but he’s not alone. Jack’s right there, waiting, whenever Dean takes the time to listen. 

He gets that glow in his chest every night. It feels like Jack’s smile did, when he waved goodbye: warm and bright and pure. It feels like his mom’s hugs used to, back when he was a kid. It feels like comfort. 

Little by little, day by day, it gets easier. The kid’s always there, waiting for him, even if Dean doesn’t know what to say. 

What would happen if he prayed to Cas? 

No. No point in wondering. Dean knows that the answer is _nothing_. Nothing — abso-fucking-lutely _fuck-all_. There would be no answer, no rustle of wings, no raspy _“Hello, Dean”_ — he would pray, and it would be _silent_ , because Cas is _gone_. 

Dean missed his chance.

—

“You out there, Jack?” 

He’s out there. Dean’s starting to trust that he’ll always be there. 

“I’m trying, okay? I’m trying to be _me_ , not him. I don’t _want_ to be him. ” 

He has to pause and take a deep breath. He’s been thinking about how to say it all day, and the words still don’t come easy. 

“I want to be the person _you_ thought I could be. You and Cas, you always thought —” He takes a long drink. “— _fuck_. My dad didn’t — he didn’t say that enough, and I wish he’d taught me how to — how to tell people. I love you, Jack. I’m sorry. I should’ve said that sooner. To you, and… to a lot of people, probably.” 

The tears start to spill over, hot and stinging, and it’s _okay_ , Dean reminds himself. Jack’s still there. He’s not leaving. 

“It hurts too much,” he admits, and his voice breaks. “Thinking about what I could’ve had, if I hadn’t… wasted all that time. I should’ve told Cas.” 

Dean doesn’t fight the tears. He lets himself cry until there’s nothing left, until his eyes are puffy and his voice is raw. 

When he gets up, brushes himself off, wipes his cheeks, he feels lighter. It still hurts, but he feels lighter. 

“Love you, Jack,” Dean says quietly, into the silence. “Talk to you tomorrow.” 

—

Sam is watching a family — the mom and dad and kid all holding hands, their smiles bright in the sunshine — and he looks sad. 

Dean knows what Sam would say, if he asked. 

_Someday, maybe. I wouldn’t mind having kids… someday._

When Dean thinks about family, he thinks about the past: the childhood that he dimly remembers, when everyone he loved was under one roof. He doesn’t think, _someday_. Not like Sam does. Most of Dean’s family is long gone, and if they ever held hands at a pie festival, Dean doesn’t fucking remember it. 

Dean tries not to dwell on it, but he’ll always remember heaven, all those years ago. Dean’s heaven was going back home to be with his family again. Sam’s heaven was running away to try to find a home of his own. 

Dean wants to tell him to go. He wants Sam to be happy _almost_ as much as he wants Sam to stay. 

“I’m thinking about Cas. You know? Jack. If they could be here.” 

_Fuck_. 

For a moment, Dean lets himself imagine: holding Cas’s hand, making him laugh, walking in the park, sitting on an old porch swing, eating pie. Maybe they would have beehives. Maybe Dean would get a guitar.

Maybe they could’ve had a life together. Maybe they could’ve been happy. 

“I think about ‘em too,” Dean says quietly. 

It still hurts. Fuck, it _hurts_. 

— 

It takes Dean a moment to process what he’s feeling. The rebar punched through skin and muscle, and at first it just feels _strange_. The pain hits later. The fight’s over by the time Dean really understands what’s happening. 

He considers his options. 

He could call an ambulance. He could call Jack. He could barter and bargain and claw his way back one more time. 

He could rest. 

It’s not gonna be pretty, this way. He can _feel_ it in there, cold and intrusive, chilling him from the inside. It’s gonna get messy real fast. 

Dean closes his eyes and tries to breathe. It’s harder than it should be. 

_Jack,_ he thinks. _Jack, I need a favor, buddy. Give me a minute, okay? And… let me go easy, maybe. If we could just skip the coughing up blood, and… yeah. I don’t want Sammy to have to watch that. Can you do that for me? Just… let me go easy, and… give me a minute to talk to my brother._

He feels that now-familiar warmth. The pain recedes, and the chill with it. 

_Thanks, Jack,_ he thinks, and then he opens his eyes. 

“Sam,” he says quietly. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere.” 

— 

So this is it. 

He wants to see Mom and Dad, of course. He wants to give his mom a hug. He wants to just… _sit_ with his dad. No pressure, no hunt, no rules, no orders. Maybe things can finally be simple again. As soon as Sam gets here, they’ll all be together — all those people he never thought he’d be able to hold again, all in one place. 

Dean doesn’t have to worry about losing them ever again. 

They’ll _stay_. 

No more goodbyes. No more loss. 

And for the first time in his life, Dean’s not in a rush to get somewhere else. He’s got nothing but time. 

He’s going to wait for Sammy. He’s going to figure out what he’s going to say to Cas. He’s going to _breathe_. 

Dean goes for a drive. 

— 

“Hey, Sammy.” 

“Dean.” 

They breathe. They take their time. They’re in no rush. 

Eventually, though, it’s time to hit the road again. 

“You want to pick the music?” Dean asks. 

Sam laughs as the engine rumbles to life. “Man, you _must’ve_ missed me.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I really fuckin’ did.” 

“Are we gonna talk about this?” Sam pulls out the mix tape Dean made for Cas, all those years ago, and holds it up with a knowing smirk. He pops the cassette into the tape deck and turns up the volume. 

“Dude, you have _decades_ worth of shit to tell me about,” Dean grumbles.

“Yeah. And you’ve got some unfinished business to deal with. Let’s go find Cas.” 

“Bitch.” 

“Jerk.” 

—

Dean’s not sure how long they’ve been driving, but he knows _exactly_ what he wants to say — he has a speech, he has it all planned out — by the time they round a corner and see the house. Dean just _stops_. If they weren’t in heaven, the brakes would squeal like a motherfucker. 

He stares for a moment. It’s the house where Dean grew up, but… _better_. 

It’s the only house on the block now; no neighbors, plenty of privacy. It’s surrounded by a big, sprawling garden, all fenced in, and the fence needs some repairs, he can see already. There’s a stream running through the backyard, big enough that there’s probably some decent-sized trout lurking in the eddies. 

There’s a garage, too, and a car inside under a sheet, surrounded by tools, waiting for him. It looks like Baby, and Dean does a double take before deciding that he’s not going to question the logistics here. It’s heaven. Of course he has one Baby to drive, one Baby to tinker with and detail endlessly. 

There’s a porch, a big wraparound one with a swing out front. The house itself needs a fresh coat of paint; it’s starting to look a little worn around the edges, but it’s surface damage, nothing structural. It’s like the laugh lines Dean sees in the mirror when he smiles, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He _earned_ those lines. 

Dean can’t wait to spend long quiet days in the sunshine, fixing this house up, putting some love into it, making it his own. 

There are two whitewashed beehives tucked into a corner of the garden, under an arbor, and suddenly Dean’s heart is racing. 

“I think this is my stop,” he says. His voice is a little wobbly. 

“I’ll get out and walk the rest of the way,” Sam tells him with a grin. “I’ve got a funny feeling my place is just around the corner.” 

“Love you, Sammy.” 

“Love you.” He gives Dean a hug. “See you soon.” 

The gate squeaks when he flicks the latch and swings it open. _I can fix that,_ Dean thinks absentmindedly, as a dog starts barking. 

_His_ dog. Miracle. He recognizes that bark. 

Cas is waiting on the porch. He’s beaming, brighter than sunshine, just like the last time Dean saw him, but this time Dean’s smiling too. 

He _had_ a speech. He forgets most of it, now.

Dean takes the last step too quickly. He almost stumbles, and Cas grabs him by the upper arm, laughing, holding him steady. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean’s so happy he can barely breathe. 

“I love you too,” he says, and before their lips meet he says it again, just because he can: “I love you, too, Cas.” 

He knows there’s more he wanted to say, but it can wait. They’ve got time. 


End file.
